Loulou & Yves

  PAULE MONORY I’d begun at Saint Laurent in the men’s studio in 1979, and left when the house closed twenty-three years later. I was a timid twenty-two when I started—toute petite! There was one photocopying machine in the entire house, in Gabrielle Buchaert’s office, the press office, which I used on the sly. M. Saint Laurent’s drawings were preciously guarded. No question of them just floating around.

  Graduating to the couture studio, I was in total terror. There were two chairs facing each other in front of Saint Laurent’s desk, one for Loulou, one for Muñoz. Muñoz introduced me to him. “Bon, donc, voilá, Paule’s going to work with us.” He had two dogs, both well-known biters: Hazel, a Chihuahua, and the famous Moujik, a bulldog. There were four Moujiks in all, all with the same name; each time one died, he replaced it with one that looked exactly the same. It was my third day, I’m sitting at my desk, M. Saint Laurent is seated nearby, the dogs at his feet. Moujik waddles over and sniffs my legs. I don’t dare touch him for fear of being bitten. Then he starts to rub against me, you know, excited. M. Saint Laurent smiles. “Moujik has accepted Paule.” Everything was okay now that Moujik had given me the nod.

  I was in charge of le livre, the black loose-leaf binder that contained every document and recorded every decision about every model: fitting mannequin, atelier, sketch, model number, fabric swatches—lining, stiffening canvas … The same information went on a pink card for the purchasing department, which supplied the workrooms with their materials. Purchasing noted quantities and the number of hours that went into each model to determine the end price to the client.

  One or two weeks after Saint Laurent gave in his drawings, the chefs d’ateliers would reappear with their toiles—the earliest iteration of a model, in muslin, for the first fitting. The mannequins were always fully coiffed and made up, in black tights and heels, like dolls. The toiles were exquisite, every pleat ironed, button placement marked, shoulder pads in place. Saint Laurent was King of the Shoulder Pads. In the eighties, they became like armor. The testing and paring and building up to get the thickness just right was endless. During a first fitting, Saint Laurent might say, “Ç a ne va pas, Jean-Pierre, look at the sleeve,” and point to a detail on the drawing. “You see that? It means there’s softness there.”

  “I look a little like Régine, no?” Loulou cracked of her March 1973 Interview cover. With a full Scavullo makeover—makeup by Way Bandy, hair by Benjamin Moss of the Suga salon, extreme airbrushing—she looked for all the world like one of the photographer’s Cosmopolitan cover girls. Loulou was just months into her job with Yves. She earned the cover because she was now officially his chouchou. © Interview magazine. Photograph by Francesco Scavullo.

  ANNE-MARIE MUñOZ It was up to me and the ateliers to figure out what his silence meant. I remember M. Jean-Pierre, head of the suit atelier, leaving the studio as soon as he’d entered. If Yves didn’t say much, you knew where you stood. For example, he could point his nose at a model and say, “It’s no good at all.” He’d get up and adjust the toile and say, “Okay, we’ll look at it again later.” Then that night or the next day I’d tell him when we were alone, “Wait, we’ll find a solution.” When I say it like that now it sounds like a ton of bricks, but at the time it flowed like a river … [Today] when I’m on the street or bus and I see a woman, I imagine in my head how her outfit could be improved with Yves’s magic, redoing the sleeves, changing the buttons—a fitting!

  NICOLE DORIER You were dressed for fittings by your dresser and the atelier in Mme. Ida’s little office outside the studio. She’d been a premiè re at Dior and was the directrice technique; she had her name in brass on the door, like the premiè res. Mme. Ida’s were the last hands that touched you, giving you a good shake, your pleats a final straightening. I went in first, followed a few steps behind by the premiè re. The way M. Saint Laurent looked at you, every mannequin wanted to think she was the only one, that his smile was uniquely for her, making her unique, too. That was his great art. Maybe it was true, for the space of a smile.

  You couldn’t just be a hanger, presenting a wool suit and a chiffon evening dress in the same way: You had to invest yourself. It wasn’t enough to be a pair of great shoulders: You had to know how to use them—and show there was a head above them. The attitude you gave off helped the premiè res. Mme. Georgette remembered being scared to death. “You’re afraid, Georgette,” M. Saint Laurent said to her. “Oh, oui, monsieur.” “I’m afraid, too,” he answered, the nicest thing he could have said to give her confidence. The premiè res waited their turn to enter the studio, like they were going to confession. They came out absolved or had to continue praying and coming back and coming back until their model matched the sketch exactly. How many left the studio with death in their hearts, having heard, “It’s very nice, but it’s not my sketch.” It was like the guillotine.

  PAULE MONORY What was wonderful, sometimes the ateliers interpreted the drawings in ways that surprised Saint Laurent. There are fifty thousand ways to make a ruffle. When a seamstress discovered the trick of cutting a square and gathering it and giving it a half-turn so that the ruffle took off on the bias, he was thrilled.

  The fabrics were chosen by Saint Laurent, Loulou and Muñoz weeks before, but without knowing exactly what they’d be used for. The fabric houses would come by with their suitcases of samples, enough of each to make one model. Once the toiles were finalized, Saint Laurent selected the fabric for each design. Then came the first fitting of the dress, or whatever it was, made up in fabric. It was only tacked but looked perfect. If Saint Laurent wasn’t satisfied, or the atel-iers had a problem achieving an effect, Anne-Marie intervened, a model of diplomacy. There was never a raised word. Loulou was so cheerful during fittings, suggesting color combinations, buttons, accessories, linings … Whereas a couture model was designed as a total outfit, Rive Gauche ready-to-wear was conceived as pieces that were combined into looks by Saint Laurent, Loulou and Muñoz. He had fun, like a woman in her dressing room in the morning. “Voilá, I think I’ll wear this coat with those pants with that blouse.” Sometimes a model was perfect right off the bat, other times Loulou would make a face. “Ouff, c’est pas terrible.” But I never heard her say, “It’s awful.” She’d suggest something else.

  MAXIME DE LA FALAISE She gave [Yves] confidence by being so enthusiastic. She is never negative, Loulou. She wouldn’t say, “Oh I don’t like this sketch.” She’d say, “I like this one better than that.”

  LOULOU I’ve never been very passive, I’ve always been someone who contributes or makes the atmosphere … Sometimes [Yves] would be stuck as to what to do, and then he would come in with a drawing of a rather overblown outfit and say, “Ahh, isn’t this wonderful!” Then as the collection would go on he’d be more and more doubtful over the great idea he’d had, and then finally we’d see this very serious model coming in, frightfully proud with this absurd-looking outfit, and we would all get a fit of giggles, and then the whole thing would be chucked away and off with this silly idea … If the mannequin took offense, we said, “No, it’s the outfit, it’s grotesque” … Obviously we have to take [fashion] into consideration. You can’t be in the business and be a snob about fashion. Our big insult is when we look at something and don’t like it very much, we say, “It’s too fashionable.” But at the same time we’re part of it. With each new collection we do decide on a line: the lengths, the proportions, the shapes, the new silhouette … that is fashion. We start with a structure, but by the time we have finished with it, it is simply a very pretty new suit, we have mellowed and refined the fashion accents … Fashion goes through phases. I just wait for them to be over.

  VIOLETA SANCHEZ The studio moved downstairs to the grand salon a week before the show because more space and a clean, neutral backdrop were needed to decide the final looks. The sofas and one long table were covered in toile and all the jewelry and hats laid out, the gloves… Everyone was there, the milliner, the shoe person … We, the mannequins, walked out from be
hind, Loulou hung us with jewelry, and M. Saint Laurent appraised us.

  JOAN JULIET BUCK She reacted, added, and decorated … Loulou added the spice and the fun … When it came to the potent thrill of colors and shapes, hashish and champagne, [she and Saint Laurent] were in agreement. Pink, orange, purple, turquoise: “The colors of Algeria,” said the fashion critics. Necklaces with stones as big as armchairs or hung with entire coral reefs, bracelets up to the shoulders, monster cuffs at the wrists, turbans, boaters, sashes. “Accessories,” said the fashion critics. All of these things were noisemakers, confetti, and streamers—applied to the most calibrated and measured tailoring ever devised.

  FRANÇOIS-MARIE BANIER Yves was decisive, severe, like a mathematician, not what you think, lost in a fog. I saw Loulou work with him, proposing accessories, shoes. But it was always he who locked it all in.

  ANDRÉLEON TALLEY As Yves’s creative collaborator for three decades, Loulou helped define twentieth-century fashion. During a fitting she never stepped out in front of the master; she stood on the sidelines at the center of the realm, fluent in the language of couture. At work in the gilded Napoléon III salon, Loulou was all rigor and discipline, creating nuance with her deft ability to pile on accessories. Her elegant palette included a deep cognac suede glove with a gauntlet of mink and a drawstring bag ending in a pompom and a grand Russian fur toque and multicolored earrings and necklaces. Her ability to drape a scarf or knot a muffler was without parallel. She could wrap the perfect turban in the blink of an eye. Turban or trousers, sweater or le smoking, she knew how to wear clothes. She loved the elements of chic Parisian style: stockings, garters, gloves, hats. And like Coco Chanel, she believed in faux jewels worn with the same intensity as real stones. Yves adored her. They were like brother and sister.

  PAULE MONORY Every woman in the house was jealous of Loulou. She had the phenomenal power that came with being an intimate of Saint Laurent. There was justice and logic in their closeness. In his place, she’s the person I’d have chosen, too. I would’ve loved to be friends with her, but it was impossible. She was a wild animal outside of work. Being in the studio with her was thrill enough.

  BRUNO MÉNAGER Naturally, a lot of women in the company envied Loulou. She was the house’s standard-bearer, so except for Anne-Marie, they wanted to copy her. I don’t want to say anything bad about anyone, but with Françoise Picoli, who worked in the studio, I can’t help myself. She was jealous of Loulou and wanted to tear her down. There’s no mystery. You look at Loulou, and you look at Françoise … She had a tongue like a viper, complaining that she never understood a word Loulou said. “I just had a conversation with Loulou for the third time about that dress and still don’t know what she wants.” It’s true she was hard to follow, everyone knew it. Even I had difficulty keeping up. But that was Loulou. She had butterflies in her head. For me it didn’t matter.

  JEAN-PAUL KNOTT She needed to be channeled, but it was a luxury to work with her. The studio personnel changed as little as possible. I was hired because I looked like the person before me, so as not to upset M. Saint Laurent visually. My talent didn’t come into it. There was the talent of M. Saint Laurent and Loulou, and that was more than enough.

  BARBARA MACLAUREN The scene at 5, avenue Marceau wasn’t the happiest. It was frothy and phony—except for Loulou. I was at Women’s Wear, fired twice, the first time because of my attitude—Pat McColl, Carrie Donovan’s75 future drudge, was telling New York I didn’t care about the paper. Which was more or less true.

  Loulou was the only one at Saint Laurent who was sane, totally unpretentious, who I felt never used him, the way a groupie might, and the only one who wasn’t branded “YSL.” She was devoted—not the same thing. Loulou was as close to Saint Laurent as you can be to another human being—closer than family—without having a love affair. Her character didn’t change because she worked for him, whereas everybody else’s did. The nicest people became pit bulls. Some I felt sorry for, because they were worse than servants—they were slaves. Loulou did her own thing, in control of her life. Solid. Unlike the others, she wasn’t a snob, hadn’t been infiltrated—you know, mind control: “We’re up here and everyone else is down there.”

  JANE KRAMER The House of Saint Laurent is a little like a church. There is a big framed picture of the couturier in nearly every room, and people who spend their time there say that “entering the House is to enter a religion.” You take your vows. You accept “a certain fundamentalism.” You worship.

  JEAN-PIERRE MASCLET I was married to Jane Pendry, business manager for accessories, and I’d say the one person she always had something good to say about when she came home from work was Loulou.

  JEAN-LUC FRANÇOIS The Saint Laurent studio was full of repressed, humorless people who were not a joy to be around. “Ooh la la, mon Dieu,” as Loulou would say.

  PAULE MONORY Everyone in the house conducted themselves with chic and elegance. I never witnessed any animosity. But then elegantly was the way Saint Laurent himself behaved. It all came from him. La grande classe. La grande éducation. Le raffinement. I had no feeling that I was “le petit personnel.” The Maison Saint Laurent was like a grand private house, and in grand private houses I don’t think low-level staff exists. A rapport develops between those served and those in service, trusting and friendly. A present at Christmas. Saint Laurent pushed you to excel, and you did because you wanted to please him, to hear the words “C’est bien, Paule.” “C’est formidable, Jean-Pierre.” “C’est joli, Loulou.”

  AUDREY SECNAZI Everyone sought M. Saint Laurent’s approval, not M. Bergé’s. A compliment from M. Saint Laurent meant everything. We all made an effort to dress for him.

  LOULOU It is not at all grand as people imagine. In fact, [the studio] is scruffy and untidy and full of souvenirs no one dares chuck away: things brought back from holiday which just sit there. Yves has the most terrible lump of cork on his desk and, you know, an Indian goddess brought back by an Indian model. And I work in the messiest area of all, with Yves’s dog, Moujik, lying all over the fabrics: He is a French bulldog of the breed that used to be coachmen’s dogs, so you see them in those Sem cartoons of Paris. And when Mougik sleeps on the fabric we know it is a sure sign that particular fabric will do well.

  BEN BRANTLEY The Saint Laurent previews were a ritual for the Women’s Wear Paris bureau. These “advances” were like little performances—mini fashion shows staged exclusively for the paper in the grand salon, with Yves and Pierre in attendance, though you could tell the clothes had just been pulled together. Loulou knew the whole thing was a bit silly. She was sheepish and awkward, with an ironic self-awareness I thought redemptive. None of the Saint Laurent people seemed entirely at ease at these events. Well, I guess when you think of how important Women’s Wear was … One year, ball gown after ball gown was sent out. Doing my courtly best, I posed the usual question: “M. Saint Laurent, what is it you are trying to do this season?”

  “Alors, je pense que c’est trè s … sportif!”

  There was an embarrassed silence as everyone looked around at all these mannequins in stately ball gowns. Saint Laurent reconsidered.

  “Mmmm … peut-ê tre pas exactement sportif.”

  ————————

  JüRGEN DOERING Normally, because of the enmity between Lagerfeld and Saint Laurent, if you’d worked for Lagerfeld, as I had, Saint Laurent would never hire you. But I’d known Anne-Marie Muñoz’s children since we were teenagers, so she made an exception.

  Loulou lived up to her legend, she was grace and charm, but also a real little sailor, always on deck: a workhorse. She was very human. No power tantrums or black moods. She wore her position lightly, never taking anything too seriously. “Don’t be so German, Jürgen. Lighten up. Nobody cares.” At the same time, she went to the mat for her work. A perfectionist.

  It sounds idiotic to say, but we were a family. People who didn’t buy into the Saint Laurent culture weren’t kept. You had to merge yourself wit
h the house. Levels of friendship were established naturally. I didn’t try to be closer to Loulou than was necessary. She was like a cousin. Some cousins you go dancing with, others you see for Sunday tea. Loulou wasn’t open to anything closer. She had the exuberance of the English but also the reserve. She kept a lot of herself to herself.

  To me, she personified the nobility: honest, direct, as polite to the maid as to the queen. That’s upbringing. Loulou “stood straight in her boots,” as you say in French, adorable with the least young girl from the atelier. “Let’s do it like that. You can’t? No worries, then let’s do it like this.” Never disparaging, impatient or steamrolling. Never, “Do that for me now.” Always sweet and smiling and considerate. In other words, she knew exactly who she was. She didn’t assert herself; she applied herself.

  INÈS DE LA FRESSANGE In a couture house, the studio personnel can be snobbish to the atelier workers, people of modest means who are the salt of the earth. Loulou was very well-liked by them. Like the aristocrat she was, she was kind to everyone.

  AUDREY SECNAZI There were two sides to the studio door, ours and the side of the people working with M. Bergé, executives like Christophe Girard who climbed the ladder and whose salaries grew and grew. No one in the studio spoke of money—too risky. When Loulou did, it must have fallen on deaf ears. It never occurred to anyone to ask M. Bergé for a raise. An assistant designed a best-selling dress and went to see him. “I want a percentage,” he said. The guy was fired on the spot. After, he couldn’t find any work. M. Saint Laurent never concerned himself with any of this. Never. Not his thing. To Girard and the others, we in the studio were like little birds—“Throw them some crumbs and they’ll be happy.”